The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

She frowned, feeling like she’d prepared for a head-on attack, only to find herself assailed with a sudden flanking movement.

“Christina?” she said, faltering back. Because she could guess what was coming.

If she was right, she’d surrender. She’d have no choice, and that knowledge tasted bitter as aloes in her mouth. She’d do this tremendous wrong to a man who didn’t deserve it, who had already done too much for her.

The unfamiliar ruthlessness in Diarmid’s face disturbed her. Usually he was the kindest of men.

“Aye, Christina,” he said in a hard tone. “Marrying me is your best chance of getting your daughter back, certainly the best chance of establishing anything like a happy, comfortable and safe life with her. Will your pride hold out against your daughter’s future?”

“There are other alternatives.” She sounded shaky. She was shaky.

“You’re no’ a fool, Fiona.” His lips flattened with impatience. “Ye ken how risky any other plan is, how fragile, how vulnerable you’ll be. How vulnerable you’ll both be."

She did, God help her. “Why are you doing this?” she asked in a ghost of a voice, twisting the damp linen handkerchief between her nervous hands.

Diarmid sat up, still staring at her. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t moved closer, but with every second, she felt more trapped.

“Because I’ve pledged to help ye.”

“There’s help, and there’s ridiculous self-sacrifice. You’ll regret this.”

“However this works out, I’ll find my reward in knowing ye and your child are safe.” His voice turned implacable “Will ye marry me, Fiona?”

Despair flooded her and a guilt so sharp, it made her feel like vomiting. But he had too many weapons against her. She had nowhere else to go, no other choice to make.

Because the bitter truth was that when she was backed against the wall, she’d sacrifice anyone and anything for her child’s sake. Even Diarmid Mactavish.

She bowed her head and blinked back more tears. Crying struck her as the height of hypocrisy when she achieved just what she wanted, a genuine chance to get her daughter back.

But at what cost to her? What cost to Diarmid?

After a long delay, her voice emerged low but certain. “Aye, Diarmid. I’ll marry you.”

Chapter 21

On a perfect Scottish summer morning, Diarmid waited for his bride in Achnasheen’s library. He remained unsure whether Fiona would balk at the last minute, so when she and Marina appeared in the doorway, his first reaction was surprised relief.

They’d all spent yesterday making plans to defeat the Grants. Fergus, who stood up with him now, would travel to Edinburgh next week to seek legal advice about Fiona’s circumstances. Fiona and Diarmid would leave today and journey across to Inverness, from where they’d assess the situation with Christina’s foster family. With Fiona married to a rich, influential man, it was possible they could just collect the child and return to Invertavey.

Possible, but not likely.

The final resort was to snatch the girl from her guardians and spirit her away somewhere secret until the legal issues were resolved.

It wasn’t going to be much of a honeymoon for the bride and groom. But then he was grimly aware that it wasn’t going to be much of a marriage.

Diarmid hadn’t touched Fiona since she’d agreed to marry him, not even so much as a hand on her arm as they went into dinner. She probably thought he was being considerate of her feelings. When he’d proposed, he was shocked to realize that she’d developed an unrealistically rosy view of his character.

The humiliating truth was that if she gave him an inch of encouragement, he didn’t trust himself to keep his promise about a chaste marriage.

As he turned to watch her walk in, he bit back an agonized groan. This marriage would send him mad, if he wasn’t careful. Marina must know this was no love match, but it seemed she couldn’t resist turning Fiona into an unforgettable bride.

The cream gown was made of heavy silk and swept down into a graceful train. The tight bodice clung to Fiona’s bosom in a way that set his blood churning. The rich buttery color only enhanced the satiny whiteness of her skin. A collar of pearls circled her slender throat, and her moonlight hair was caught up with more pearls.

Her blue eyes sought him out, and a nervous smile hovered around those lush pink lips. Lush pink lips he’d never kiss in passion.

He’d get used to the idea of never possessing his beautiful bride. Devil take him, he had to.

Marina bustled in behind Fiona and smiled at Diarmid in an obvious attempt to bolster his spirits. “Doesn’t Fiona make a bellissima bride? Sandra was in alt when I told her we needed to make a wedding gown. Certo, she didn’t even complain about having to do it in a day.”